


Nightmares

by Evaine



Series: The Jamie and Squirt Chronicles [5]
Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaine/pseuds/Evaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Where there are dreams, there are nightmares. Follows "Dreams" and "Eyes" in the Jamie and Squirt Chronicles</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Darkest Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there are dreams, there are nightmares. Follows "Dreams" and "Eyes" in the Jamie and Squirt Chronicles

I don’t know what’s waking me up. Maybe it’s the sense of someone staring at me. Maybe the presence of someone in the room that didn’t belong. Or maybe it’s just that I fucking woke up. Whatever it is, I open my eyes a crack, see the familiar figure standing in the door and I smile.

“Dave.”

He steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him. Slowly.

I blink a few times and struggle to come awake. Difficult, as I’m still more than half-drunk on all the beer I had consumed earlier.

We had been celebrating. We were headed for New York City, cross-country, our careers finally taking off. Okay, fifteen hundred dollars, a battered U-Haul truck holding all our equipment and stuff, heading towards an uncertain list of gigs and a tenuous offer of a recording contract might not be considered ‘taking off’ by some, but it was enough for me, enough for the four of us.

“What’s up?” I scrub at my eyes and sit up, cross-legged on the mattress that serves as my bed. There’s something not quite right about Mustaine, I realise suddenly. Something in the way he’s holding himself. I reach for the plastic mushroom-shaped lamp on the floor next to me.

“No… don’t.” His voice is soft and almost hesitant. I frown, letting my hand drop back into my lap. I can barely make out his features in the faint light from the street lamp just down the street. He doesn’t have that aggressive snarl on his face that usually accompanies bouts of drinking. This is too fucking weird.

“Is something wrong?” I push my hair back and try to remember if I’d done anything to annoy him more than usual. Mustaine coming to my room in the middle of the night is definitely out of the ordinary. I glance over at James’ bed and see that it’s empty. He must still be passed out on the sofa downstairs. The party had been winding down even then, only about ten people left. Cliff had been huddled in a chair in the corner with a girl, both of them stoned and draped over each other and Mustaine had been deep in conversation with someone… I can’t remember who. I do remember staggering up the stairs hoping to reach my bed before I followed James’ lead and passed out.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Dave flops down on the mattress next to me, his legs stretched out in front of him, and studies his hands. “I was just… um… fuck… looking for company.” His face is hidden by his mass of unruly red hair and I wish I could see his expression. He’s a volatile son of a bitch and I need to know if I’m going to have to duck suddenly or not.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Gone home or passed out.” His head turns towards me and he gives me a small grin. “Fucking Cliff got fucking lucky - again.”

“Fuck, I swear, he gets more pussy than the rest of us put together these days,” I chuckle, relaxing just a bit. It doesn’t seem that Dave is in one of his more violent moods and I’m, quite frankly, still somewhat drunk.

“Yeah, so… I’m fucking locked out of my fucking room,” he continues a moment later.

“She must be something fucking special then.” I lean back on my pillows, my head suddenly too heavy to hold up any longer. “For him to get so… um… private. You can crash in James’ bed, I guess.” I figure that he’s hunting for a place to sleep, being barred from the room he shared with Cliff.

“No way, fuck!” He shakes his head. “My luck, he’ll fucking come up here once I’m asleep and fucking toss me out the window for sleeping in his space. No fucking way, man.” He toes off his shoes. “Push over, man. I’ll crash with you.” He gives me a quick look.

“Fuck, Mustaine,” I grumble. “Barely enough fucking room for me, never mind you.” I hang onto my pillow. “And you’re not getting my fucking pillow either.”

“I don’t need the goddamned pillow,” he informs me. “Just push the fuck over.” He begins to undo his jeans and I move a little closer to the wall. Normally, I don’t do things like this – allow myself to get into the position of having no escape route when he’s around. But, I’m sleepy, my mind still foggy from the beer and I’m off guard.

“Gimme some of that damned blanket,” he says, tossing his jeans over his shoes and swinging his legs onto the mattress. He doesn’t wait for me, but tugs the blanket over his lower body, lying on his back, hands folded behind his head. I lie on my side and look at him curiously. There’s just something off about him tonight and I’m damned if I can put my finger on it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks suddenly, his eyes shifting over to meet my gaze.

“Like what? I’m just looking that way is all.” I make an annoyed huffing sound and shift to get more comfortable. Just what I fucking need, a touchy Mustaine sharing my fucking mattress. I sigh and close my eyes. Maybe I can ignore him and drift back to sleep and he’ll do the same. The last thing I want is to get into it with him. “Go to sleep,” I mutter. “Tired.”

“Yeah.” I hear his breath come out in a large whoosh and then… he’s silent. Yes! I curl my arms around my pillow, and moments later, I’m drifting back to sleep, thoughts of mega-record deals, big houses, fast cars and willing bed partners, floating through my mind.

“Lars? You asleep?” His voice is barely a whisper. I bite back a groan and try to keep my breathing easy and even. “Lars?” I hold as still as I can, pleading silently with him to think I’m asleep and to just shut the fuck up and do the same. I feel him shift beside me, and sense that he’s turned to face me. Good God, I just want to fucking sleep, can’t he get the hint?

“Lars?” There’s movement and I feel a hand on my shoulder. Shit. Obviously he’s not going to let me sleep. I open my eyes a slit and I’m surprised to see how close he’s come to me. I begin to say something, but before I can get a single word out, his head moves and I find myself being kissed sloppily but determinedly. My eyes fly open and I push him away.

“What the fuck! Jesus!” I’m staring at him in the darkness, horrified.

"What? Not fucking good enough for you?” His snarl is soft but there’s a note beneath the words that sends me scrambling to sit up, my shoulders against the wall, a very cold feeling roiling in my stomach. The switch has been flipped inside him and I’m suddenly feeling scared.

“You’re drunk.” Well, that had to be one of my more brilliant observations. Of course he’s drunk – we both are – only I’m beginning to sober up rather quickly.

His hand snakes out and grabs me, his fingers tight around my wrist. I try to pull away but his grip is unforgiving. My mouth tastes like sawdust and my heart is now pounding erratically. This is fucking not good.

“I’ve seen you watching me.” His voice is quiet-–deadly quiet--and I know this is a Mustaine far more frightening than the one whose blows I’m constantly dodging. “I’ve seen how you look at me when you think no one else is watching.”

“I don’t watch you. Why the fuck would I watch you?” I struggle to bring up my bravado from where it’s cowering in the back of my beer-sodden brain. It’s all I have at this point, unable to flee, hemmed into the corner by his much larger frame. I can’t fight him – he’s twice my fucking size.

“’Cause it’s what you do, isn’t it you little faggot?” He leans forward, his breath foul with the smell of beer and my stomach dips.

“Fuck you!” I struggle again, bringing my other hand up, ready to punch. Fucking hell, he’s faster than me! With a growl, he grabs my fist and wrenches. Suddenly I’m on my back, looking up at his angry and flushed face and he’s straddling my stomach. In the faint light from the streetlamp outside, I can see the hard glitter of his eyes.

“You give it to him, don’t you? It’s always him. Always about him.” He bends and his face is again inches from mine, his breath hot and coming in quick gasps. “What makes him so fucking special? Tell me that, my little Danish friend. Why does he get it all?”

I buck my hips violently in an effort to throw him off, but I’m no match for him. He’s heavy, and he isn’t budging. I can feel a scream building deep within me, but I have enough pride left not to give into it.

“I’ve seen you, always together, fucking joined at the hip.” He continues, the anger and the jealousy obvious in his flat, nasal tones. “Go everywhere together, do everything together. _Everything.”_ His tongue snakes out to touch my lips and I wrench my head to the side.

 _This is not fucking happening!_

“Get off me, fucker!” I yell, bucking again… struggling, my legs thrashing. He releases one of my wrists for a moment, long enough to draw a hand back and crack me across the face with his fist. Pain explodes behind my eyelids and before I can react with my free hand, he’s trapped it again.

“You thought I didn’t know about the two of you, didn’t you?” He sneers at me. “I’ve seen the fucking smiles the two of you give each other, the way you touch when you think no one’s looking, the way he fucking almost carries you off the stage after a fucking performance. I saw you out back… tonight.” His eyes are cold and hot at the same time, and… Jesus, Mary and Joseph… it frightens the fuck out of me.

“Get the fuck off!” I try to dislodge him again; gritting my teeth, twisting my body and wishing desperately that someone would come. Anyone. James… Cliff… anyone. I feel that scream welling up again, but refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“No, pretty one.” He smiles, baring his teeth. “You aren’t going to smile at me, look at me with those big eyes, flirt and twitch your fucking ass at me and then give it only to James.” He spits the name out and I realise for the first time exactly how deep his envy of James goes. Somewhere, beneath the fear and the beer and the anger, I feel a sense of pity for him. Always wanting to have what James has, be better than James, be James even. It strikes me hard, like a bolt, that’s it… he wants to be James.

“I’m not giving you anything, fuckwad.” I manage to snarl out the words. He hits me again, a good clout on the ear and my head spins.

“Then I’ll take,” he hisses, his mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “Good enough for Hetfield, good enough for me. We’ll see exactly what it is that you two fucking faggots find so goddamned appealing.” He slams his mouth down—hard-–on mine. I taste blood just before his tongue is forcing its way between my lips and I’m fucking suffocating - I can’t breath. Panicked, I bite down.

“Motherfucker!” He pulls back, his face a perfect mask of angry shock. I squirm and kick, hoping he’s off-guard enough by the damage I’d done to his tongue to weaken his hold on me. I should know better-–this is Dave Mustaine-–able to kick my ass with one hand behind his back. And that’s when he’s sober – when he’s drunk? Ugly drunk? I don’t stand a fucking chance.

“Dave, fuck, why are you doing this? You don’t want this.” Use your mouth, Ulrich, I tell myself, it’s your best weapon, your best defence. “Fuck, man, I’m your friend.” Damn, is that pleading in my voice? Fuck, I am scared. I quit squirming and kicking to look at him, hoping to get through to him. His eyes are hard and uncompromising as they stare down at me; there’s wildness in there, and not a good wildness. A fury like I’ve never seen before-–and I’ve seen Mustaine hammered and aggressive too many fucking times to count.

“You’re _his_ friend. The golden boy. He gets everything. Don’t I deserve some of it? It’s always James, James, fucking James – well, now it’s my fucking turn, you get me?” His hips move on me and I realise in horror that he’s got a fucking hard on, his dick straining against the cotton of his briefs.

“Dave… please…?” That whimpering voice… is that mine? Fuck, it is. I don’t want this to happen but I don’t know how the hell to stop it. I open my mouth to let out that scream-–and I know it’s gonna be a scream-–and he wallops me again. Same spot, just behind my ear. I grab for consciousness, feeling it beginning to slip away. God, I can hardly breathe with him on top of me. Where’s James, for fuck’s sake… where’s Cliff? Where’s anyone? _This cannot be fucking happening to me!_

“Ah, my little Danish friend,” he bends over me again. “Is that you calling out for me? Is that how you call for him?” His breath is hot along the side of my face. “Should be mine… not his….” He bites savagely on my earlobe and I can’t help but cry out at the pain. Big, fucking mistake. He clocks me again and this time I slide into blackness.

I come to, slowly at first. The ringing in my ears fades away. I realise that I’m on my stomach, there’s a thousand pound weight in the small of my back and-–the bile rises in my throat-–my briefs are laying in a small heap inches away from my face. Fuck… fuck… _FUCK!_

“Awake now, are ya?” His voice almost purrs next to my ear and I shudder and begin to thrash about in an effort to roll away. The sharp point of his knee in my back is replaced by the full weight of him as he quickly straddles me. I’m sluggish from the blows, the beer and the fear--and my quickness, which has always saved me from him before, has all but deserted me.

“Dave…” I breathe out his name, trying to keep the contents of my stomach exactly where they are. I will not scream, I will not puke – I will not give him the satisfaction. I still have a pinch of pride left.

“Shush now.” His weight shifts a little and it finally sinks into my brain that unless I develop some kind of super human strength there’s no way I’m getting out of this. “You’ll see… I’m better than him. I know you want this, Lars, I know.” There’s an eerie gentleness to his voice that sets all the hairs on the back of my neck to attention. He’s gone mad, totally fucking insane, and I’m about to be raped by one of my bandmates, one of my friends. I try to squirm, thrashing about, desperate to kick him… hit him… anything to stop the horror from happening. My head is spinning, my stomach heaving and my throat is burning from the screams I’m determined not to let out. That’s the last capitulation, me screaming. I’m not going to fucking scream.

“Mutherfucking asshole.” So it sounds like a sob, at least it’s not a scream.

“Lars….” My name is a warning from him as he leans over, his arm a lead weight across the top of my shoulders, holding me down. _Oh God!_ I can feel his dick in the small of my back now, hot and hard. Fuck… his chest against my back… he’s breathing heavily… rasping… _Jesus fuck… he’s turned-on!_

“No-o-o-o-….” Definitely a sob… most definitely a sob. Are those tears coming from my eyes. Dammit, they are. My head spins; I’m going to hyperventilate. I can’t catch my breath, I can’t think, I can’t do anything… I’m fucking powerless and he knows it. A stream of Danish flows from my mouth and I’m yelling for James, for Cliff, for God, my mother, my father… anyone. Anyone to get this fucking madman off me and tell me it’s all been an alcohol-induced nightmare.

“Little buddy,” his voice is hissing silk in my ear, “shut the fuck up.” His body moves on top of mine and from behind the fall of tears in my eyes, I see a large hand grasp the briefs by my head and then the words are jammed in my mouth, held back by balled-up cotton fabric.

I moan in defeat – no one will hear me now.

“Gonna make you mine.” Fuck! The words are almost sing-song as they croon from between his lips. “Not his… not James’… mine. It’s what you want… you know it is. You’re gonna like this, Uli, you know you will.” Fuck… he sounds like a lover for Christ’s sake and that sets me right over the edge. _This is NOT happening to me!_

His arm still heavy across my shoulders, he moves again, sliding his crotch over my ass--my bare ass--and I close my eyes so tightly I see stars. What use is struggling? I can’t win. He’s fucking bigger than me, made stronger from whatever fucking demon is driving him. Struggling is only going to make it worse. Make it hurt more. Tear me… hurt me…. Tears are flowing freely now, I don’t give a damn – I’ve given up. This is going to happen no matter what the fuck I do or don’t do.

“My little Danish friend… my friend.” I can feel his dick against my ass now and yeah, okay… I whimper in fear. I could tear the underwear from my mouth, but to what purpose? Better he not hear the screams. ‘Cause I’m going to scream – I feel it well up in my throat.

He grabs one of my arms and pulls it up behind my back. My shoulder burst into flames, licking some of the anger back into me. I’m not going to lie there quietly and let him do this. I try to push up, throw him off me but he yanks on my arm and I almost pass out again from the pain. He pulls my other arm up behind me, holding me immobile, fingers straps of steel around my wrists. I can feel the obscene softness of the head of his dick sliding along the crack of my ass, searching, probing and my stomach heaves.

 _Why the fuck is he doing this? He’s supposed to be my friend. Why?_

He leans over me, pressing his face into my hair, nuzzling. He murmurs soft words beneath his breath; I can feel his lips against the base of my neck. Does he really think I’m enjoying this… that I want this? Is he that far gone that he thinks this feels good? A sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper tries to push past the wad of fabric in my mouth.

I can’t even fool myself into thinking that it’s James on top of me, experimenting after reading one of the passages in that damned book. It doesn’t feel like James, it doesn’t sound like James, it doesn’t smell like James. _Oh fuck, where is James? Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he saving me from this?_

“Gonna make you mine, little Uli.” That voice is whispering obscenely and he’s pushing my arms up just a little more. Heat shrieks along the muscles of my shoulders, overriding the frightening pressure against my ass for just a moment. He thrusts against me, finding what he’s been searching for and my throat is raw from the scream of anger and pain that’s shaking through me.

 _Pain! Good fucking God, the mutherfucking pain!_

I feel as if I’m splitting in two. Darkness tickles at the edges of my howling mind - but it’s not kind enough to encroach totally. I hear a muffled howl and wonder where the dog is, then realise that it’s me. It’s my animal scream of fury and panic, muffled by the fucking underwear between my teeth. The pain, the burning… it’s overwhelming. I beg the blackness teasing my consciousness to take me, pleading mindlessly to escape the horror of what’s happening to me.

“Won’t belong to fucking Hetfield anymore.” Dave’s manic growl is breathless and urgent as he takes me in a vile parody of what me and James have discovered.

 _Dear God, let me die now!_

A crash.

 _“The fuck!”_ A voice, a blessed voice, and a moment later the searing pain stops.

The oppressive weight is gone from me. I hear a growl and a crash. I open my tightly screwed eyes to see Dave sprawled limply against the side of James’ bed, a fury in jeans and wild auburn hair looming over him.

I spit the fabric from my mouth thankfully and let my arms fall back to my sides. They feel like two blocks of wood. Dead wood.

“Cliff,” I croak as he backhands Dave across the face with a crack of his large hand. I close my eyes again; tears streaming down my face as I curl my body into a tight ball. The sound of flesh thudding against flesh fills my ears.

I want him to kill the bastard.

  
@@@@@@

  
“Aw, man….” Cliff’s kneeling beside me now, reaching out a hand to touch my shoulder. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern over that hawk beak of a nose of his, but anger still thins his lips.

“Where is he?” I whisper hoarsely. My throat hurts. It’s raw. And I’m shaking like a fucking leaf.

“Gone. Took off like the chicken shit fucker he is.” He pushes the strings of hair off my face. I feel something inside me unclench and I relax a little. I reach around and pull the tangled sheets around me as best I can. I’m cold and I’m suddenly very aware of my nakedness.

 _What the fuck just happened?_

“Did you hurt him?” I ask, trying my damnedest to keep the trembling from my voice. Fuck, I’m a man… I’m nineteen years old… I can’t cry like a fucking girl!

“Not nearly enough,” Cliff mumbles. His hand grips my shoulder gently and although I want to flinch, I don’t. “I heard noise,” he explains. “Angry noise, so I came to see what the fuck was going on.”

“Thank fucking God.” I’m regaining a little of my equilibrium even though I’m a mass of pain. As I pull myself up into a sitting position I groan - hurts so fucking much!

“C’mon, man, let’s get you cleaned up,” he urges quietly. “Unless…” he frowns again. “Unless you wanna call the cops or something?” His dark eyes search my face. I shake my head and wince at the pain shooting through it.

“No. No cops.” I’m shaking again. All I want is to get clean, to wash the scent of fear, of Mustaine off me. I want to forget this even happened.

“Okay.” He helps me to my feet and I’m still clutching the sheet around me, my knuckles white. Suddenly, he puts his long, gangly arms about me and hugs me to him. “I’m so sorry, Lars. So sorry I didn’t get here….”

“Gotta get fuckin’ cleaned up,” I mumble, pushing myself away from him. I don’t want him to be sorry, don’t want to hear pity in his voice and most of all, right now, I don’t want to feel trapped by someone else’s arms. The tears are close to the surface, too close and I inhale deeply in an effort to keep them at bay. Tell myself to be a man. Slowly, as steadily as I can, I head for the bathroom, Cliff hovering at my side. He places a hand between my shoulder blades, something he’s done a zillion times before, and I shrink beneath the touch.

“Lemme get the water going.” His voice is gentle - almost soothing, as he flicks the light on in the bathroom. He bends to turn on the faucets and I catch a look at my face in the mirror over the chipped and stained sink. Is that huge-eyed, stark-boned person under the tangle of hair, me? Fuck. I’m pale, deathly pale; the greasy yellow light overhead illuminating the dark circles under my eyes, the purpling bruise along the side of my cheek. I lick my tongue over my split and swollen bottom lip and wince at the sting. The reflection looking back at me is frightened and vulnerable. Shell-shocked. Shattered.

“Mutherfuck,” I mumble under my breath and begin to tremble.

“C’mon, man, get in the shower.” His hand is on my shoulder again and this time I can’t control the shudder that rips through me. His fingers grip comfortingly and he begins to take the sheet from my shoulders. My fists clench around the fabric in panic. It’s my only protection and I don’t want to let it go. A small whimper bleats through my lips. He shushes me, murmuring sounds that reach into my memory and brush against childhood recollections of my mom. Comforting, soothing, calming, peaceful. Reluctantly, I let him remove the sheet and I step into the shower.

The water is hot, almost too hot as I stand under it. It sluices over me, stinging at first. I look down, my eyes fixing on the rust encrusted drain. Fuck, someone needs to clean that out, look at all the fuckin’ hair. Actually, someone needs to give the damned bathtub a fucking scrub. Fuck, I live with a bunch of pigs. Soap scum? Fuck, it’s fucking soap coating….

“Fuck….” The sob hurtles up through my chest and bursts past my lips, echoing and bouncing against the dingy blue-grey tiles. I hug my stomach tightly, hair hanging along the sides of my face in streaming sheets as the water flows over me. My fingers are digging into my sides – if I can hold tight enough, maybe I can keep from flying apart.

My guts heave and I double over. A small stream of beer and bile circles the drain as I sink to my knees with a thin wail of helplessness.

“Lars!” There are hands on me. Gentle hands. Caring hands. “Uli, come on, man. It’s gonna be okay.”

I’m shaking now. Shaking, despite the steam and heat from the water pounding against my skin and pooling around me. I squeeze my eyes shut and grab for the last threads of composure I can find. Think about something good-–think about your dreams-–think about the future. I grab one of those large hands and hold on for all I’m worth as more sobs rip through me.

“Jesus… I’m going to get James.” His voice is determined. “Wake him the fuck up. Let him deal with Mustaine.”

“No!” I scream the word, jerking my head up. “No, he can’t know. He’ll kill him. We’re going to New York… we can’t… he can’t… we need Mus… Mustaine.” I’m babbling, but it’s clear to me what can and cannot happen. I blink tears and water from my eyes and reach out to grab at Cliff’s arms. He has to understand. “We can’t do anything to upset the band. We need him… we need the mutherfucking guitarist. Ain’t worth shit without a lead guitar. _New York, man!”_ I’m staring into Cliff’s dark eyes and I can see that he’s certain I’m hysterical.

“Lars… man….” He shakes his head and I tighten my hold on his arms.

“No, James can’t know. We’ll tell him… fuck, we’ll tell him Mustaine and I fought over some chick… tell him I pushed Mustaine’s last button and didn’t move fast enough.” I grit my teeth and can feel the skin tighten over my face. “Tell him anything but what happened. James can’t know!”

“Okay, okay….” He’s giving in to me. He doesn’t like it, I can tell, but I can’t let this happen. I can’t let James find out.

“Can’t let Dave ruin it all, Cliff. Not everything.” I push my streaming hair off my face. “Can’t ruin the band too. Not all our dreams.” Determination wars with hysteria and barely wins out.

“Alright, Uli, alright.” Cliff nods and I know I’ve won. I relax a little and lean against the side of the bathtub, breathing heavily. I have to keep that one thought in mind. Can’t bring down Metallica, not now, not when it’s so close. I hold that thought close to me – it’s my lifeline.

“Lars,” he says, his voice soft and gentle once again. “You have to let me check you out. Let me see how badly you’re hurt.” He soothes me when I begin to tense up again. “C’mon now…. Here, let’s get your hair washed for a start, you’ll feel better for that.“ He knows how vain I am about my hair.

He reaches for the bottle of shampoo and pours a liberal amount in his hand and moments later his strong fingers are massaging my head, and I feel a little more of the tension slip from me. I’m like a skittish baby horse; a colt, that’s never been touched by human hands before. I keep one thought in my mind – I’m not letting that fucker bring down what I… what James and I have dreamt about for so long. Not now, not when it’s right within our grasp.

I’m feeling calmer now.

“Okay… Uli?” Cliff’s voice is low, his tone firm. I turn to look at him and he gives me a small, lopsided smile. “Man, I gotta check… you know… see how bad… if the bastard…” his voice trails off. “See if we gotta take you to the hospital or something.” His dark eyes are filled with worry and—what-–regret? Pity? No, it’s not pity, definitely. Cliff wouldn’t do that. Sympathy? Yeah, that’s it, sympathy.

I’m as embarrassed as shit, I feel my face flaming, but I know he’s right. There’s a tiny part of my brain that’s howling with hysterical laughter, thinking why not? He’s the only one left in the band who hasn’t been at your ass for one reason or another. I shove that thought away mercilessly. Can’t think about my own comfort or pride. Think about the band first. Metallica. Gonna rule the fucking world. Remember that. Only that.

I lean my hands against the grimy tiles and bend over slightly. His hands are smooth and gentle and thank fuck, business-like. I want to sink down the fucking rust-encrusted drain from the shame, but I drag my frantic thoughts away from that precipice. I can’t let it get to me. Can’t let it be bigger than us… than the band.

“I… I think you’ll be okay.” He straightens up and gives me a small pat on the back. “Looks to be a little tearing, and you’ll probably be sore for a few days… but doesn’t look like anything near permanent.” He squeezes my shoulder tightly.

“Guess the fucker isn’t as well hung as James.” My bitter joking falls flat as I turn off the water and stand dripping in the bathtub.

“Here.” Cliff holds up a towel and begins to wrap it around me.

“I can do it!” I snap and grab the towel from him. “I’m not fucking helpless!”

“Lars….” He looks at me with those sad, brown eyes and suddenly I’m grasping frantically for him, the sobs shaking me from the bottoms of my bare feet. His arms wrap around me and he’s holding me, rocking me, murmuring words of comfort into my wet hair.

I have but one thought. Get it out now; get out the fear, the anger, the hurt and the shame… get it all out now; because tomorrow, the only thought is going to be for Metallica. That’s what’s fucking important. Not me, not Mustaine, not James or Cliff.

Metallica. We’re gonna rule the fucking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first chapter fic! Whoohooo! Inspired by a plot bunny hatched in RP chat - with thanks to Funky Canuck. A huge thank you to Joolz for all her encouragement and support. And another huge thank you to the most wonderful beta - Ang - I couldn't have done it without you, girl! Ellipses and em-dashes - oh my!
> 
> Yes... this is the Fic From Hell. The plot bunny that refused to go away.


	2. The Cold Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life does go on. There is a tomorrow. And what does tomorrow bring; will it be light, dark or a shade in between?

“The fuck happen to you?” James looked up from the large mixing bowl of Captain Crunch cereal as Lars entered the kitchen. His eyebrows knitted together as he took in the fat lip, the technicolour bruise on one side of Lars’ face and the stiff way he held himself.

“Too much party.” Lars lowered himself into the chair across from James, biting back a small groan. One of James’ eyebrows rose in query and Lars sighed. The circles beneath his eyes could have been bruises themselves, they were that dark. “Is there fucking coffee?” The words were a raspy mumble followed by a wince as he raised his fingers to probe at his bottom lip.

“What’s the other asshole look like?” James grinned, shovelling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“Dunno.” Lars shrugged. His eyes flickered towards the counter, searching out the coffee maker.

“It’s fresh, just made it,” James told him, nodding at the machine. “So… who was it?” Details, he wanted details.

“What?” Lars got to his feet with another muffled groan and limped to the sink to rinse out a mug. James inhaled another large spoonful of Captain Crunch and eyed him curiously.

“You okay, Squirt?” His tone softened with concern.

“I’ll live.” Lars busied himself with making his coffee, aware of James’ eyes studying him. He straightened his shoulders, trying to ignore the shriek of pain that skittered across them. “No jamming today though. Fucking hurts.” He stirred a second spoonful of sugar into his coffee.

“Gotta start getting our shit together anyway, right? Leave in three days.” James grinned around the spoon in his mouth.

“Yeah.” Lars nodded and sipped at his coffee, before gingerly making his way back to his chair. He winced as he settled, curling one leg beneath him.

“Man, you really _are_ fucking hurting. What the fuck happened?” James’ concern returned, the spoon suddenly forgotten as it splashed back into the half-empty bowl. Lars looked at him over the rim of his mug, eyes large in his pale and bruised face.

“Stupid fuckers.” Cliff strode into the kitchen, lighting a cigarette as he walked. “Fuck, James, be glad you were passed out.” He paused at Lars’ side and gave him a soft cuff on the shoulder. “Missed the fuckin’ fight of the century.”

“Yeah?” James’ attention swivelled from Lars to Cliff as he picked up his spoon once again.

“Yeah.” Cliff inhaled from the cigarette dangling from his lips and raked his fingers through his mop of auburn hair as he sprawled in an empty chair. “Tiger here taking on our buddy Dave over some blonde piece of tail.” He leaned his arm on the table and gave James a conspiratorial grin. “Lemme give you some advice, man. Don’t get this one riled. He managed to rearrange Dave’s face pretty good when all is said and done. He’s tough for a pip-squeak.”

“Fuck you, Cliff.” Lars muttered, his coffee mug still raised to his mouth.

“Too bad the chick took off. She was a bit of all right.” Cliff ignored him and continued to grin at James.

“No fuckin’ way!” James laughed almost gleefully as he dug into his cereal with renewed relish. “Over some chick? And I fuckin’ missed it? Fuckin’ shit. And where’s the other jerk-off? Redid his face for him, didja, Squirt? Good for you.” The spoon clattered to the table as he raised the bowl to his mouth and gulped down the milk that was all that remained of his breakfast. “Gonna rag Mustaine over that one,” he chuckled, pushing the bowl to the middle of the table and tossing the spoon into it.

“Don’t do me any fucking favours!” Lars stood up abruptly, his expression sour as he glared at both his friends. “Just… just fuckin’ forget the fuck about it, okay?” His chin rose belligerently as he ground his teeth together. _“Okay?”_ he repeated.

“Hey, man….” Cliff’s voice was soft while James just stared.

“Ah, fuck it.” Lars turned on his heel and limped from the kitchen, his back rigid.

“What the fuck crawled up his ass and died?” James scowled. “I’d have thought he’d be fucking doin’ some goddamned Danish happy dance after messing up Mustaine.” He slouched lower in his chair his long fingers fiddling with the spoon in the bowl.

“He’s kinda messed up too,” Cliff reminded him with a shrug of his bony shoulders. He dragged on his cigarette and watched James through the smoke, his gaze solemn. “Don’t tease,” he advised. “He seems touchy about it.”

“Annoying little bastard,” James muttered. A moment later his face brightened. “So tell me… how bad is Mustaine’s face?”

@@@@@@@@@@

Mustaine’s face was bad. Cliff looked at him coldly, feeling no pity at the bruises and cuts that marred the freckled skin of his roommate.

“So where the fuck have you been?” he asked calmly, propped against the headboard of his bed, a joint hanging loosely between his bony fingers.

“Not fucking here.” Dave glared at him, his eyes filled with both defiance and apprehension. One eye was half-closed from swelling that had barely begun to go down, the other bloodshot and red-rimmed.

“We leave for New York day after tomorrow. You gonna be ready?” Cliff raised the joint to his lips and inhaled, his eyes never leaving Dave’s face.

“New York?” Dave sank down on the end of his own bed. “”Figured if I was going anywhere it sure as fuck wouldn’t be New York.”

“Lars seems to think that the fucking band is more important than dealing with a piece of shit like you.” Cliff exhaled. “And more fucking important than him, comes right down to it.” His tone was calm, conversational as he studied the end of his joint. His eyes flicked back to the bruised and battered face that watched him warily. “Don’t know that I agree.”

“Me either.” Dave’s face crumpled and he buried it in his hands, strangling back a sound suspiciously like a sob.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Cliff took a final hit from the joint and tossed the end into the ashtray. “Jesus, Dave….” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the other man.

“Did you… did he--“ Dave raised his head from his hands. “Does James know?”

“Again, Lars seems to think it’s better he not know.” Cliff chuckled harshly. “You’re one lucky fuck, man. I told James the two of you fought over some piece of tail.” He fixed Dave with a steely gaze. “He bought it. And Lars doesn’t want to hear anything about it. You understand me?”

“Yeah… yeah, fuck, I understand you.” A trace of Mustaine aggressiveness crept back into his voice and one of Cliff’s eyebrows rose. “It’s all his fault you know. I mean, fuck, man… you know what they’re doing? Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

“What? That they sometimes sleep together?” Cliff gave a careless shrug. “Who the fuck cares? They sleep with chicks, they sleep with each other… as long as it feels good, what’s the problem?”

“They’re fags, man!” Dave stiffened as incredulity spread over his battered face. “How the fuck could they…? Fuck, it’s just not fucking right!”

“And just what the fuck do you think you were doing, Dave?” Cliff’s voice was still low and even. “You gonna tell me that you mistook Lars’ ass for some chick’s pussy? Give me a fucking break.” He snorted derisively. “Even you’re not that stupid.”

Dave flinched as if he’d been hit again and his face paled. His hands clenched into fists, his nostrils flaring, reminding Cliff of a cornered animal.

“You don’t fucking understand,” he snarled.

“Oh?” Cliff leaned his head back. “Maybe you need to explain it to me then.” He crossed his legs at the ankles and waited expectantly.

“It’s him. Lars, man….” Dave sprang to his feet and began to pace the small bedroom in agitation. “Weeks now—fuck--he’s been looking at me, giving me these… fuck, I dunno… these fucking looks. Looks like he knows something I don’t fucking know… something I should know.” He rubbed his hands along his thighs as he paced. “Like him and… fuck… him and James… they’ve got this big secret thing… and they’re not letting me in… and it’s like he’s fucking taunting me. Like I’m not fucking good enough or something. It’s not my fucking fault, Cliff! He’s supposed to be my fucking friend, man… and here he is, always fucking around with James.” He drew his hands through his fiery hair, his eyes darting about the room, looking everywhere but at the man on the bed. “Fuck, I broke that guy’s leg because he fucking beat on Lars… and what the fuck do I get? Fucking smart ass comments, fucking superior grins, fucking eyes laughing at me!” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “And what the fuck does James get? Huh? They’re fucking best friends. Fuck… it’s always fucking Hetfield… gets fucking everything….”

“So you had to fucking rape him?” Cliff’s voice was deathly quiet. “You think that’s gonna make him your friend?” He slid to the edge of the bed. “You stupid fuck, what does that get you? You’re so jealous of James--you’re worse than a three-year old, taking another kid’s favourite toy and breaking it, because if you can’t have it he can’t have it either.” He got to his feet suddenly and took a step towards Dave. “Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve done?”

“No.” Dave’s head lowered, his hair tumbling forward to hide his face. “I don’t remember most of it. Not really. Just wanted… just wanted him… wanted to know… just wanted what James had. He’s prettier than most fucking girls, for fuck’s sake! I just wanted to think I was good enough,” he said, his voice a taut, harsh whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just… I just saw red. I was drunk… stoned… lost control. It’s not my fault--I don’t fucking know why!”

 _“That’s no fucking excuse!”_ Cliff’s hand buried in the mass of red curls and pulled Dave’s head back with a snap. His eyes were hard and uncompromising as he leaned his face down close to the face he had bruised and battered two nights before. “Hear this and hear it fucking good, asshole. You stay away from him. You stay away from Lars. He saved your ass this time, but I fucking promise you… even look at him funny and you’re a dead man. _You got that?”_ His mouth moved next to Dave’s ear, his hand holding tight to Dave’s hair, holding him immobile.

“I got it.” The answer came from between clenched teeth.

“Ignorant fucker.” Cliff pushed him away with a disgusted snort. “Almost fucked it all up… Lars… the band… everything… and for what… because you were jealous?” He gave him a scornful look and left the room, unable to bear looking at his roommate any longer.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Dave moaned beneath his breath as he sank down on his bed. “It wasn’t my fucking fault.”

@@@@@@@

“Lars, you cold?” James took his eyes off the road and glanced at his companion in the front seat of the rented U-Haul truck. The small frame was huddled in the corner, his back half resting on the door, his arms wrapped around knees that were pulled up to his chest. Two days out of San Francisco and they had hit cold, wet weather that made travelling unpleasant, if not downright dangerous when the temperature dipped below freezing.

“Nah.” Lars looked up and gave him a faint smile. “Just tired and hungry. We gonna stop soon?”

“Sign said there was a truck stop about ten miles ahead. Wanna grab a bite there?” James stretched his fingers over the steering wheel and shifted slightly in his seat. “I’m hungry and I’ll bet the other two could do with some grub.” He nodded his head slightly to indicate the back of the truck where the other two band members rode with the equipment and all they would need of their worldly possessions in New York. It wasn’t the most comfortable of arrangements, but it was all they could afford.

“Food would be good.” Lars stretched out one leg and stifled a yawn. The bruise on his face had faded and his split lip was almost a memory by this time. His other aches and pains he preferred not to think about.

“Squirt, you sure you’re okay?” James asked hesitantly. “I would have thought you’d be a little more hyper about this whole thing….” His voice trailed off and he shrugged. “I dunno, you just seem off.”

“Lots to think about, James.” Lars ran a hand through his hair, dismayed to feel a slight tremble in his fingers. “Money, a place to stay, rehearsal space, all kinds of crap that needs taking caring of.”

“But you are excited, right?” James gave Lars another quick glance, the headlights of an oncoming car casting a stark glow on his features. “I mean… it’s good, isn’t it? Not having second thoughts?”

“I am excited,” Lars straightened and some animation returned to his face. “It’s just been busy getting us on the road and then trying to figure out what the best plan of action is once we get there. The best way to start our fucking quest for world domination.” He grinned.

“And get you a boat,” James chuckled, reassured by his friend’s smile.

“Yeah, and get me a fucking boat.” Lars twisted in his seat, thrusting his legs forward into the wheel well and stretching his compact length. “A big, fucking, white boat,” he repeated with a groan that dissolved into a snort of laughter. “I’ll name it Dominator. You name boats right? Yeah? So, I’ll name it Dominator.”

“She, not it. You call boats, she,” James informed him seriously.

“Yeah?” Lars screwed his face into a thoughtful pout. “Then I guess it’ll have to -–‘scuse me, _she’ll_ have to be named Dominatrix.” He gave James a sideways glance, his lips twitching.

James took his eyes off the road again, giving Lars an incredulous look before dissolving into guffaws of laughter. Lars settled back in his seat, satisfaction written all over his face.

“Yeah, a big, fucking, white boat named Dominatrix.” For a moment at least, all was right with his world.

Three hours later, his world tilted.

It was uncomfortable on the floor of the truck, despite the thickness of the mattress beneath him. He should be fucking used to this, he’d been sleeping on this mattress for over a year, but somehow, the floor of the truck was not the same as the floor of his bedroom. He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t cause pressure on his hipbones or his shoulders. It didn’t help that James’ sprawling frame took up three quarters of the mattress. He bit back a sigh of frustration.

“Quit squirming.” James’ voice was low and sleep-thickened as his arm snaked out and wrapped around Lars’ middle.

Lars stiffened.

“Cold.” James pulled him closer, curling his longer length around Lars’ body. “Warm.”

Lars’ eyes were wide as they stared into the near-total blackness, his heart racing.

Moments later, James’ deep, even breathing told Lars that he had fallen back asleep and he let his own breath out slowly. Okay, he could do this. It was only James wanting to cuddle in his sleep; looking for warmth in the chilly confines of the truck box. James wasn’t going to hurt him. James wasn’t Dave.

He began to relax. He was so tired--hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night for the past week. The constant vibrations of the truck wheels rolling along the road began to lull him into drowsiness. The soft sound of James’ breath ghosting past his ear was soothing, as was the warmth coming from the chest pressed against his back and the arm wrapped about his waist. Feeling himself beginning to drowse, he snuggled back against that wall of warmth and let himself drift.

He came awake slowly, stretching cat-like in the darkness. Languorous warmth crept through him in slow waves, flowing out from the gentle movement of skin against skin on his stomach. A low, pleased sound murmured past his lips at the warmth moved lower, softly brushing the slight curve of his underbelly. He arched back slightly and felt teasing heat beneath his ear and moaned quietly when his earlobe was tickled by something equally as warm but this time wet. Felt so good to be enveloped in soothing touches that coaxed his body to life. He purred as the hand beneath his belly stroked lower and lower. Fingers slid over his erect cock and the purr grew into a low moan.

“Awake now, huh?” The voice was a low, amused rumble next to his ear, followed by a soft sigh and suddenly Lars became aware of an insistent pressure against his ass.

His body stilled, a wave of panic flushing the languorous heaviness from his limbs. With a small gasp of dismay, he pulled his legs away from the long limbs tangling with them and endeavoured to escape from the suddenly oppressive weight against his back.

Free. He needed to be free.

“Lars?” He felt James rise up on his elbow behind him and grabbed the chance to squirm from beneath him. Swallowing a frantic moan of fear, he pulled away from the suddenly stilled hand beneath the elastic of his briefs, tugging down the hem of his t-shirt. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he struggled to sit as close to the edge of the mattress as he could. He could just make out the shadow of James’ form in the darkness of the truck. Light, he needed light. His hand groped for the battery-powered camping lamp he knew had to be nearby.

“Lars, what’s wrong?” Concern and confusion were apparent in James’ voice. “Man, you’re freaking me out.” There was the rustle of blankets as he sat up and Lars felt a hand brush his arm. He shrank back, inwardly cursing himself.

‘What’d I do?” There was an almost plaintive note James’ voice.

“Nothing. Nothing.” Lars finally put his hand on the light and switched it on. The inside of the truck box was bathed in the faint light of the old lamp and he breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at James’ face and suddenly wished he’d left the light off.

“I-I-I musta… been dreaming.” He lowered his gaze, intensely aware of the surprised and confused look being levelled at him from behind the spider web tangle of hair that fell over James’ features.

“Some dream,” James observed sourly. “You’re shaking.” He pushed back the hair that shadowed his face and gave Lars a small, tight grin. “And not in a good way.”

“Must be the truck.” Lars pulled the blankets over his legs and tucked them around him. “Feels closed in. Makin’ me fuckin’ jumpy.” It sounded lame, even to him. He stole a quick glance at James and winced inwardly at the flicker of hurt that passed through his eyes.

“Didn’t feel jumpy….” James’ voice trailed off as he extended a tentative hand towards the nearest of Lars’ knees.

“That’s why I must’ve been dreaming,” he said, drawing his knee away slightly. James’ hand fell to the mattress.

“Do you do that on purpose?” James scowled. “Fuckin’ confuse the shit out of me with your fucked-up logic.” He dropped back down on his back and folded his hands across his stomach. He gave Lars a quick glance from the corner of his eye. “Jesus, Lars, stop looking as if I’m gonna fuckin’ thump you or something. Shit!” He huffed in annoyance. “You’re not in the mood, you’re not in the fuckin’ mood! Not a fucking crime.” He closed his eyes.

“I… I’m sorry, James.” Lars bit his lip and wished he sounded anything other than the fucking pitiful wuss he felt. “I just-–“

“Fuck, Lars, just go back to sleep.” James snapped. “Don’t be fucking sorry. Be quiet.”

“Sorry,” Lars mumbled, sliding back down to lie on his side. He held his body to the edge of the mattress, the fingers of one hand gripping the edge tightly. Was this what alone felt like? He didn’t like it one goddamned bit. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat as he reached to turn off the lantern. He’d get past this; he had to. Metallica… the future… biggest fucking band in the world. Hot tears burned behind his eyelids.

“Fuck.” A long arm reached out; and a moment later the warm, solid wall of James chest was pressed against his back. No, not quite alone….

“James, I….”

“Shut up, Squirt.” James’ sigh whuffled through his hair, gruff affection mingled with the annoyance and resignation in his voice. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Yeah, he’d get through it; he had no fucking choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Ang - the best beta an author could ask for! Thank you sweetie, for everything! And Joolz, for encouragement, support, laughs--the whole nine yards. And Fiendy! Thanks for the summary help, my friend!


	3. The Fist Opens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York City beckons. Can Lars put things behind him and concentrate on getting Metallica to the top? Will he be able to confide in James? Can the band remain unscathed after the events in San Francisco?

“Whose fucking brilliant idea was this?” Lars yelled, pulling on Cliff’s shoulder. The music was loud in the dingy bar and only by placing his mouth close to Cliff’s ear could he be heard. Despite the run-down appearance of the place, it was packed with young people drinking, shouting and dancing to the blaring rock music being played by a band who obviously needed more practice time in their garage.

“You got us lost in Bumfuck, Ohio, man,” Cliff shouted back, eyebrow quirked in amusement. “Not my fault if both James and Dave decided a pit stop was in order.” He took a drag on his cigarette and scanned the crowd.

“Should be on the road,” Lars muttered under his breath, leaning on the bar, his fingers curled around a bottle of Budweiser. “Not my fault I can’t fucking drive and read a fucking map at the same fucking time. Fucking James fucking snoring in my fucking ear—no fucking help at all.” He took a long pull on his beer. “Wakes up and gives me shit. All his fucking fault for fucking falling a-fucking-sleep.” He glared across the room at the tall, blond figure he could just make out leaning against the far wall, watching the band, his expression impassive. Petulantly, Lars gave him an unnoticed finger and felt slightly better about the situation.

“These fuckers can’t play for fuckin’ shit!” Dave sidled up on the far side of Cliff, an almost-empty beer in one hand; full one to the ready in the other. Lars rolled his eyes. Dave Mustaine, two-fisted drinker.

“Sure not like the last band we saw,” Cliff shouted back. “Fuckin’ Exodus could mutherfuckin’ play.” He shook his auburn head. “That Hammett kid—good as you.” He grinned lazily at Dave.

“Bull-fuckin’-shit!” Dave protested, indignant and drunk. “Lars, he’s full of shit, tell him.” He began to step around Cliff and Lars found himself moving back against the bar, his fist clenching.

“Hammett’s pretty good,” he said, struggling to control the sudden, fearful pounding of his heart. “Definitely in your league.” He wasn’t going to run, he wasn’t going to slip behind Cliff; he was going to stand and face Dave if it was the last thing he did. It didn’t matter if his legs were trembling, if his toes curled tightly in his sneakers, if he was ready to run. It just couldn’t fucking matter.

“What the fuck do you know?” Dave glared at him and he felt his heart jump into his mouth. “Pissant fucking drummer barely knows what the fuck he’s doing.” Dave took another step towards him and Cliff began to straighten. Lars gritted his teeth and nudged Cliff with his hand that held the beer bottle.

“Think he’s fuckin’ worried about his job?” He tilted his chin belligerently, letting his own temper begin to roil at Dave’s words. So he wasn’t the best fucking drummer in the world, he was fucking Metallica’s drummer and no drunken asshole of a lead guitarist was going to put him down. Anger warred with fear and won—barely.

“Fuck you, Ulrich!” Dave was in his face now, leaning down and sneering. “I’m a better fucking guitarist than you’ll ever be a drummer. We all fucking know that. Even your precious fucking Hetfield knows it.”

“Dave.” Cliff barked warningly, all vestiges of laziness gone from his features.

“No.” Lars set his beer on the bar and gripped Cliff’s forearm lightly. “Let him fucking talk. What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Mustaine?” His eyes narrowed as he stared at the face inches from his own. His stomach was tied in knots, his breathing shallow, but he wasn’t about to be cowed a second time.

“You know what it means, you fucking, no talent, ass-fucking, pansy-assed, fairy fag.” Dave’s dark eyes glazed over with rage. The urge to bolt was strong within Lars—he loathed this new fear that had become a part of him—but the words cut deep into every insecurity that had been gnawing at him. “If it wasn’t for your mouth and your ass, Hetfield wouldn’t keep you around any fucking longer than needs be.”

Lars jumped, his hands driving directly for Dave’s throat, his lips twisted into an angry snarl. All the rage and fear and hurt he’d been feeling for the past week fed his fury. His fingers tightened around Dave’s neck, clawing into the flesh. Their bodies crashed into a table amidst shouts and shrieks of annoyance and shock as the people sitting there scattered. Bottles and glasses flew, tin ashtrays skittered across the floor.

“Fuck!” Cliff’s voice rose above the noise of the crowd and the music as he made a futile grab for the two writhing bodies.

“You fucking take that back!” Lars growled. His vision tunnelled until he saw only the stark face of his adversary. He wanted to wipe the sneer from that face, erase the derision from those eyes. His fingers tightened and he began to bang Dave’s head against the tabletop.

“Lars! Goddamit!”

He was vaguely aware of hands grabbing at him from behind. Dave landed a blow against his side that knocked the breath from him but he held on.

“Take it back, mutherfucker!” His thumbs pressed into the flesh of Dave’s neck and he growled with satisfaction as the anger and rage in the dark eyes looking up at him faded into something akin to fear.

“Fuck, Lars, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill him!”

An arm slid around his neck, a hand in the waistband of his jeans and suddenly he was pulled from his quarry. His hands were torn from around Dave’s neck and he kicked out, connecting with Dave’s knee. His breath came in loud, gulping sobs as he tried to wrestle himself free from the sudden trap of long arms that wrapped around him.

“Let me!” he shouted, scrabbling to get loose.

 _“No!”_ A voice thundered next to his ear. “Enough.” The firm tones brooked no argument.

“You little fucking twerp!” Dave sprang up, no fear in his wild eyes now—only anger… and murderous rage. Lars fought against the arms that held him, fought to get loose, to attack. Fought to protect himself.

“Fucking hell!” James bellowed again as he wheeled around and threw Lars into Cliff, then turned to grab Dave, ducking the fist that was suddenly aiming for his jaw.

Cliff held Lars firmly as he struggled to get to his attacker and managed to drag him away from the two larger, scuffling figures. Lars was vaguely aware of the people nearby, watching the excitement with various degrees of interest. He watched as James threw Dave into a chair and bent over him menacingly, snarling into his face.

“C’mon, we’re fucking going outside.” Cliff kept a firm grip on him as he walked him--unresisting now--from the bar, out into the cool night air.

“Goddam, fucking asshole!” Lars twisted from Cliff’s hands once they had moved a few steps away from the entrance to the bar. The adrenaline high started to drain from his body and he began to shake. He wrapped his arms around his middle in an effort to quell the trembling. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Jesus, Cliff, why didn’t you let me—“ He gulped and clamped down on the sob that suddenly threatened.

“Because it was neither the time nor the place, Lars.” Cliff fished out a cigarette from his battered pack and lit it, the flame from his lighter giving his face an even more hawk-like appearance.

“Fuck, man….” Lars sagged against the wall of the building. “I can’t do this—not anymore. I fuckin’ can’t.” He ran both hands through his hair, dismayed by the feeling of helplessness that washed over him. “Cliff, I can’t even stand to be near him. How the fuck are we gonna play? How the fuck are we gonna be able to get up on stage and fuckin’ play?”

“I don’t know how you thought you were going to do it in the first place, buddy,” Cliff said, not unkindly.

“We gotta be like one up there.” Lars slid his hands between his knees, clasping them tightly in the hopes that the shaking would soon stop. “We gotta know that whatever happens, we can trust the other three. Fuck, Cliff, you _know_ that’s how it’s got to be.” He hunched his shoulders. “I can’t bring myself to trust him one fucking bit. I keep hearing his voice, feeling his hands, feeling him—fuck, I can’t do this!” He began to rock slightly. “I want to hurt him. I want to hurt him like he hurt me. I want him to feel fucking powerless and scared.”

“Lars, it’s got to stop.” Cliff blew out a cloud of smoke and moved to stand in front of his friend. “You’re right. We have to be one fucking unit, both on stage and off.” He dragged on his cigarette thoughtfully.

“It’s not gonna happen with the four of us now,” he continued. “Dave’s managed to set himself apart from us; from you, me and James by breaking your trust. James doesn’t know why, but fuck, believe me, he knows something’s wrong. I was sure he was gonna put him six feet under after the fucking accident with the jeep. Asshole, drinking and driving in a fucking snowstorm.” He shoved a hand in the pocket of his jean jacket and gazed off at a point on the wall over Lars’ head. “What James would do if he found out about you….”

“I’m fuckin’ scared, Cliff.” Lars turned his face upwards. “James… me… fuck, you know what I mean.” Two spots of colour tinted his cheeks. “I don’t want that to come between us.”

“Man,” Cliff looked down at Lars’ strained features. “You know… the first time I met you guys, I could see it. See the connection between the two of you. You two are the heart of it, nothing’s gonna change that.” He smiled gently. “It’s you and James, together, you know.

“You’ll make it work; and you’re gonna make Metallica work. And fuck, I want to be a part of that.” The end of the cigarette between his lips glowed as he pulled on it. “That’s my future too. You’ve drawn me into your dream. Dave… fuck, he tries too hard, he’s pushing too fucking much, trying to fit in where he doesn’t belong. He’s not part of the vision, Uli. Not any more.” He smoothed his index finger over his straggly moustache. “We need a new guitar player.”

“Right now?” Lars was shocked out of his misery.

“As soon as fucking possible, man.” Cliff pitched away his cigarette butt. Lars’ eyes turned from distressed and frightened to shrewd and thoughtful as they followed the orange glow.

“We got shows scheduled….” Lars mused, his hands unclasping from between his knees. He tugged absently at a lock of hair and Cliff could fairly see the wheels of his mind turning.

“Someone with talent can deal with that easily,” Cliff observed “Who do we know that could fit the bill?” He went still. “Lars…?”

“Hammett.”

“Hammett.”

Eyes locked. Two fists shot out and knocked together.

“Hammett.”

  
 **@@@@@@@@@**

  
“You score?” James looked up as Cliff approached. He shivered slightly, the bitter cold wind licking down the neck of his leather jacket. March was definitely going out like a lion in New York City. At least the six-pack of beer nestled between his booted feet would still be cold by the time they got back to Johnny and Marsha’s.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Cliff gave a nod, coming to stand in front of James, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his jean jacket. “Twenty bucks sure doesn’t buy as much weed here as it does back home.” He shook his auburn head sorrowfully, strands of hair whipping across his face in the wind.

“Should stick to beer. Cheaper.” James grinned as he bent to gather up his six-pack. “And Lars doesn’t bitch as much doling out the cash.”

“He hanging with the Anthrax guys again?”

Shoulder to shoulder the two headed into the wind, back towards their crash space at the home of their new managers.

“Yeah.” James nodded. “They were going to record some shit this afternoon and you know Lars, had to go along and see how that was done. He wanted to check out the rehearsal space at the same time.” He shrugged. “Been busy as a fuckin’ beaver since we got here. Can’t seem to fuckin’ sit still for ten minutes.” A hint of something bitter, something puzzled, shaded his words.

“Driven. That’s what my dad would call it. Driven.” Cliff’s mouth quirked in a swift smile. “Fuckin’ good thing for us that he is, though. Gets the shit done… unlike others we could mention.” He hunched his shoulders as a particularly bitter gust of wind tore at them.

“Asshole.” James didn’t need to be told who Cliff was talking about. Since the incident in the bar, Dave had become even more surly and aggressive, wanting only to drink and snarl at everyone it seemed. It was beginning to grate on James’ nerves.

“Cliff?” James gave his friend a quick glance from the corner of his eye. “Do you feel as if something’s changed? Something’s not right—fuck—and I can’t figure it out.” He scowled. “We’ve lost something. Dave… Lars… something’s off.”

“I feel it too, bud, I feel it too,” Cliff said in a soft voice. He clapped a hand on James’ shoulder.

“Lars, man.” James continued, his own tone thoughtful. “It’s almost like he can’t stand to be near Dave and it’s gotten worse since Ohio. I’ve never seen him so fuckin’ angry. He wanted to fuckin’ kill him, Cliff.” He sighed. “And fuckin’ Mustaine, saying all that shit about Lars—where the fuck does he get off anyway? If it wasn’t for him, there wouldn’t even be a fucking Metallica, you know?” He shook his mane of blond hair. “I just don’t fuckin’ get it.”

“Maybe…” Cliff ventured, “maybe it’s time we thought about a change?” He hunched his shoulders and watched James carefully, gauging his reaction.

“Dump Dave?” James turned an astonished face to him. “Fuck, man, that’s radical, isn’t it?”

Cliff shrugged.

“If he’s not working out….” His voice trailed off. “You, me, Lars… we’re cool. Right? Fuck, it’s something to think about.” He raised his face into the wind, letting it blow back his hair. “If, like Lars says, Metallica’s gonna take over the world, we’ve all got to be on the same page. Not sure Dave’s even in the same fucking book anymore.”

“Yeah.” James tucked his six-pack more firmly beneath his arm. “Bears thinking about.”

They walked the rest of way to the house in silence.

  
 **@@@@@@@@**

  
“Where you fuckers been?”

“Aw, Jesus fuck!” James exploded in exasperation as he and Cliff entered the living room. He glared at the unkempt figure sprawled on the chintz covered sofa, one hand flexing into a fist, the other holding his six-pack tightly.

“You bought beer?” Dave pushed his thick tangle of hair off his face and squinted at the package that James held. “Fucking idiot, there’s enough booze here to keep even us going for at least a fucking week.”

“Asshole.” James growled under his breath, eyes glinting in the late afternoon sunlight trickling through the blinds. “Bloody fucking asshole.”

“What? Don’ wanna join me?” Dave’s words were slurred. ‘Don’ know why the fuck I’m surprised.” His hands gripped the neck of an almost empty bottle of vodka cradled in his lap. His lip curled in a sneer. “The two of you off fuckin’ this time ‘round? The little twerp not enough for ya, Hetfield?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dave.” Cliff laid a hand on James’ arm. “You’re hammered.”

“Fuckin’ right I’m hammered.” Dave agreed, his chin lifting. “Got a problem with that?”

“Gettin’ a problem with you, fuckwad.” James took a step forward, despite Cliff’s restraining hand on him. “Look at this fucking place!” He gestured with his free arm. “Marsha’s gonna have a fuckin’ fit!” He kicked at an empty beer can on the floor. Dave had obviously made himself more than at home over the afternoon.

“Ah, give it a rest, James, you fuckin’ sound like an ol’ woman.” Dave raised the vodka bottle to his lips and took a loud and noisy gulp. “Gonna hav’ ta start callin’ oursel’s Cuntallica soon.” He sniggered, running a hand under his lip.

“Bastard!” James reached across the coffee table and grabbed Dave by the front of the shirt and hauled him to his feet. Cliff grabbed the six-pack as it slid from beneath James’ other arm.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” Dave struggled, the bottle of vodka slipping from his fingers and landing with a dull thud on the carpet. “Goddam fuckin’ pussy!” His face twisted into a snarl, his eyes blinking as they tried to focus on James’ angry face.

“Don’t ever…” James’ voice was low and tight with rage, “ever, fuckin’ talk that way again, you sorry piece of used asswipe.”

“James.” Cliff’s tone was calm and even in the face of his friend’s fury.

“Bah!” James spat, pushing Dave, sprawling, back onto the sofa. “Not fucking worth it.” He retrieved his beer from Cliff and glared down at the white-faced object of his disgust. “Fuckin’ tool. Stay the fuck out of my way.” He spun on his heel and headed into the kitchen, back rigid with anger.

“You may have just fucked yourself but good.” Cliff swept his gaze over Dave’s prone form. Dave flicked him an unsteady middle finger before slumping further down into the sofa. With a small shake of his head, Cliff turned and followed James into the kitchen.

“Cliff?” James stood at the counter and popped open the first of his beers. His eyes stared unseeingly out the window over the sink as he took a long pull from the can. “What we were talkin’ about earlier? You’re right. It’s time.” He ran his tongue over his lip. “Got anyone in mind?”

“Hammett. Hammett from Exodus.” Cliff’s lips curved slightly.

“Good deal. Let’s call him.” James turned from the window, his eyes bleak. “Tomorrow. Tonight I’m getting’ hammered.”

  
 **@@@@@@@@**

  
“Where the fuck is everybody?” Lars sauntered into the drafty rehearsal hall that now served as Metallica’s home.

“Huh?” James was hunched over his guitar, concentrating on the sheet of paper covered with his scrawls in front of him. He looked up and blinked a few times, bringing himself back to the here and now. Lars grinned.

“Earth to James.” He chuckled, and headed for the battered sectional sofa, curling up in its corner and kicking off his runners as an afterthought. “Figured everybody’d be here.”

“Nah.” James shook his head. “They’ve all headed to some friend of Phil’s for a party. Said I’d wait for you and see if you wanted to go over. I wanted to work on this fucking song anyway.” He tapped the paper on the table in front of him. “Where the fuck you been?”

“Straightening things out with Johnny Z and Marsha.” Lars ran his hands through his hair and sighed, wuffling up his bangs. “They’re still pissed, but Johnny figures it’s all part of dealing with rockstars.” He grinned. “He’s still sure we’re the next big thing.”

“We are!” James grinned in return, his nimble fingers striking a loud chord on the guitar.

“Well, despite the fucking mess we—mostly Mustaine—made of their place, they’re still willing to back us. They just don’t want us living with them.” Lars stretched out a leg and began drumming his fingers on his thigh. “And we got a show on Staten Island night after the first one in here in the city.”

“Fuckin’ all right, man.” James pumped his fist in satisfaction. He leaned his guitar against the table and got to his feet. “Want a beer?”

“Fuck yeah.” Lars nodded eagerly. “All this wheeling and dealing makes Lars a thirsty man.” He smacked his lips together a few times and patted his stomach.

“Yeah, Don King, watch out.” James snorted as he dug two beers out of the refrigerator that had to have been at least twenty years old if it was a day. He’d already had to tinker around with the motor on their first day in the run-down building that housed the rehearsal space in order to get it to run.

“Someone’s got to pacify the suits.” Lars laughed softly as he took the offered bottle. “Although I don’t think you can actually call Johnny Z and Marsha, ‘the suits’.”

“Don’t let Johnny hear you say it, he’ll whomp you one.” James collapsed onto the sofa next to Lars and sprawled, his long legs sticking out in front of him. He eyed Lars from the corner of his eye as he took the first pull of his beer. “So, heard anything from Hammett?”

“Johnny got him a flight on the sixteenth.” Lars nodded, holding his own bottle to his lips. “Two more shows with Dave and… that’s that.” A shadow passed over his eyes and his fingers stilled along his thigh. James noticed the change but said nothing, falling silent as he began to worry at the label of his beer bottle.

“You okay?” Lars asked after long moments during which the only sound in the room was the whine of the refrigerator motor.

“Yeah.” James sighed. “It’s just fuckin’ hard, you know? Even if it’s the right thing for the band.” He finally ripped half the label from the bottle and balled up the paper between his long fingers before pitching it halfway across the room in an angry motion. “Why’d he fuckin’ have to ruin everything, Lars? Why?”

“Cliff says he’s fucked up. All the drinking, drugs, the violence… I think he’s right.” Lars’ voice was quiet as he replied. He shifted in the corner of the sofa and took a sip of his beer. “He’s not one of us anymore. Not since… well, not since we left San Fran.”

“No. No he’s not.” James twirled his bottle in his hands. “Hammett? You think he’ll be okay? Think he’s got what it takes to be part of Metallica?”

“I get a good vibe from him.” Lars nodded. “And he’s a fuckin’ wizard with that guitar.” His lips quirked in a small grin. “He’s better than Mustaine, if you fuckin’ ask me.”

“Yeah.” James chuckled softly. He shifted his position, bringing one long leg up to curl in front of him as he faced Lars. “Do you want to go to that party?”

“If you want.” Lars shrugged. “We got beer here… we could just hang out here, unless you’re needin’ some action?”

“Nah, let’s just stay here.” James leaned his shoulder against the back of the sofa. “Quiet’s nice for a fuckin’ change.” He bit his lip. “And it’s been a while since it’s been just you ‘n’ me. Haven’t had a chance to fuckin’ talk since we got here, have we?”

“Nope. Been busy as shit.” Lars raised his bottle to his lips and took a long gulp. James’ eyes watched him closely and he felt himself begin to grow warm, despite the chill in the room.

“Squirt, why have you been avoiding me?” James leaned his head to the side and fixed him with a curious yet serious gaze.

“Have I?” Lars began to gnaw on a nail that had showed no signs of being ragged before he started to chew on it.

“Shit, Lars, don’t fuckin’ shut me out, okay?” James voice rose in volume and, Lars thought, maybe a hint of desperation.

“I’m not.” He could hear the defensiveness in his tone and cursed himself. “I’ve just been busy as fuck, that’s all.” He spat out the bit of nail he’d bitten free and studied the result, not able to meet James’ eyes.

“You’ve always been busy as fuck with something.” James fingers tore at the remnants of the bottle label. “Ever since I’ve known you.”

“There’s just… lot’s of shit to take care of. Bookings, plans, meeting people—shit—it’s a lot of fucking work, James.” Even as he said the words, Lars knew he was making excuses. He _had_ been avoiding James. Avoiding being alone with him, avoiding the intimate conversations they didn’t seem to share with anyone else, avoiding the closeness that inevitably led to other things.

“Yeah, well, thought I’d done something to piss you off.” James drained his beer in two large gulps and got to his feet.

“No.” Lars shook his head and finally allowed himself to look up. James face, half-hidden by the fall of pale hair, was set and resigned and he could just glimpse the narrowing of his eyes with—was it hurt?

“Ready for another one?” James moved towards the fridge.

“No, not yet.” Lars watched as James yanked open the refrigerator door, the abruptness of his movements indicating his annoyance. With Lars? With himself? With both of them? Lars wished he knew.

“I mean….” James bit off a sigh. “Fuck, if you don’t wanna… you know….” He made a vague movement with his hand as he turned back to the sofa. “I get that. It’s okay. Shit, things change, right? I’ll get over it. I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on, so I’d know. Ya know?” He sprawled back down on the sofa, twisting off the beer cap and flicking it unerringly into the nearby wastebasket. He took a large swallow from the bottle. “I guess I just miss talking to ya.” He shrugged. “Or listening to you talk to me,” he added with a small grin.

“Can we make note of the date somewhere?” Lars cleared his throat, responding to the grin, not to the words that stirred things deep within him that he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “The date you actually said you missed me yapping your fucking ear off? Fucking red letter day, if you ask me.”

“Shut up.” James reached over and flicked at Lars’ kneecap with his forefinger.

“Shit, that didn’t last long.” Lars grinned, nudging James’ thigh with his foot.

“Hey!” James grabbed at the foot, catching Lars around the ankle. “You’re cruisin’, fuckwit,” he warned, the slight creases in his cheeks erasing whatever menace his words may have held.

“Yeah?” Lars raised his eyebrows as he stretched out his other leg and gave James a harder nudge with his free foot.

“Squirt….” James’ own eyebrows rose as he yanked on the ankle he held, pulling Lars down the arm of the sofa to sprawl slouched in his corner. “I wonder if you’re fuckin’ ticklish,” he mused, setting his beer bottle on the floor and positioning his fingers inches away from the bottom of Lars’ foot.

“James, don’t you fucking dare!” Lars squirmed, pushing against James’ thigh with his other foot in an effort to get away.

“Hah! You are!” A gleeful grin split his face.

“James!” Lars practically shrieked, trying very hard not to laugh. “You mutherfucker!” His empty beer bottle slid to the floor as he tried to find purchase on the edge of the greasy couch and push away.

“Hold still!” James’ laughter barked out. “This is a fucking experiment, Squirt!” He tussled with the flailing legs that kicked out at him. “I wonder if it’s just your feet?” His laughter turned to outright guffaws as Lars squeaked in defiance.

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” Lars shouted again, his own laughter getting the better of him. “Maybe you’re ticklish too?” He pushed himself to a semi-sitting position and made a grab for James’ arm. More good-natured tussling ensued, punctuated by grunts and gasps of exertion.

“Gotta give you points, man, you don’t give up easy.” James was half on top of him by this time and Lars found himself looking up into laughter-filled eyes.

“Haven’t given up yet, fuckwad,” he said with a cocky grin, trying in vain to spit strands of hair from his mouth. A gentle finger came up and swiped along his cheek, pulling the wisps aside.

“Stubborn shit.” James smiled and bent his head.

A tiny sigh escaped through Lars’ slightly parted lips as James’ mouth brushed over his. He closed his eyes, thoughts returning to a moment buried amidst all the events of the past few weeks. Gently… almost tenderly, James’ mouth moved on his. The hand he’d rested on Lars’ shoulder shifted so that he could slide his thumb to run beneath the line of Lars’ jaw before curling his fingers around the back of his neck, his palm warm against Lars’ skin.

“Lars.” His name was a breath ghosting over Lars’ mouth, followed by the slow glide of the tip of James’ tongue tracing the fullness of his bottom lip. With another small sigh, Lars’ lips parted further to allow James to continue his tongue’s trail over its outer contours. Licking softly at the underside of Lars’ upper lip, James deepened the kiss.

James’ lips were firm and warm against Lars’ pliant mouth… gentle as they encouraged him to join in the kiss. His tongue curled languidly about Lars’; teasing, stroking… tasting… as his fingers massaged the back of Lars’ neck lightly… coaxing him to respond. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Lars brought a hand up to tangle in the wavy curtain of James’ hair that now fell across both their cheeks. James ran his tongue lightly over the roof of Lars’ mouth, curving it back to slide over Lars’ own gently probing tongue. All of Lars’ attention became focused on this quiet, determined devastation of his mouth; he had no wish or ability to think of anything else.

A small moan rose from him as James pulled back and caught his lower lip between his teeth and began to suck softly on its fullness. Warmth unfolded slowly within him, bringing a pleasant heaviness to his limbs and a desire for more.

He splayed his fingers against the back of James’ head and pulled him back, wanting to feel James’ mouth moving on his again. He slid his tongue between the welcoming lips, searching out the soft raspiness of James’ tongue, needing and wanting to feel it glide over his own. He felt James’ hand bury in the thickness of his hair, the pads of James’ fingers pressing against his scalp, James’ thumb rubbing in a soft, gentle motion just behind the hairline at his temple even as he explored the hot recesses of James’ mouth with his tongue, taking his time, memorizing each warm, wet curve, each texture, each taste. Finally, he reluctantly released James’ mouth from his own with a last gentle nip at James’ bottom lip.

“Fuckin’ nice, that was.” A slow grin spread over James’ face and Lars smiled in response. He had never kissed nor been kissed like that before and he found that he liked it more than a bit.

“Kinda feel like I should have those fuckin’ little twinkly stars dancing over my head,” he chuckled. “Like in the fuckin’ cartoons.”

“Shit, Lars….” James laughed softly. He brushed his knuckles softly against Lars’ lips and Lars wondered at the sudden gentleness in him. “Guess I missed more than your yappin’.”

“James, I…” Lars lowered his gaze to a spot somewhere on James’ shoulder. “Something happened—“

"Awww, ain’t that pretty... the girls are at it again.” Dave’s drunken drawl was loud in the cavernous room. “Hey, Het? Gonna buy Lars a pretty dress?" The door slammed shut, followed by the clatter of an empty beer bottle hitting the floor.

Lars felt the body half-covering his tense, then rumble with a growl from deep inside. Then it was gone and James was standing in front of Dave, feet spread, fists clenching at his sides, mouth twisted into a snarl of anger. The chill of the room stole the warmth from Lars as he scrambled to his feet, the instinct to flee strong within him. He exchanged a quick glance with Cliff, who stood at Dave’s back, and ruthlessly crushed down the sudden fear. No more. No more running.

“What? He don’t put out enough for a new dress?” Dave sneered, his eyes flickering to rake over Lars. “He—“

James’ hand was a blur as it backhanded across Dave’s face, connecting with a wicked crack. Dave staggered, and James grabbed the front of his shirt and raised his hand again. Lars started forward, then paused at the look of pure rage on James’ features.

“Oh fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks - HUGE THANKS - for my wonderful beta, Ang. Babydoll, you make my writing better and I appreciate every last thing you do for me. And Joolz, thank YOU for all the hand-holding and support. This is by far the most difficult thing I have ever tackled and you being there has given me the confidence to continue. And to my readers - thank you for taking the time to read and give me feedback. It's so very much appreciated.


	4. The Closed Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could all be going to hell in a handbasket; especially if the truth comes out.

“I’ve had enough of your shit, Mustaine.” It was a simple statement of fact. Stated in a cold, firm voice that made Lars’ blood chill in his veins.

Dave’s head snapped back as James backhanded him for the second time; blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. James hung on to the front of his shirt, keeping him on his feet, positioning him for another blow. Dave kicked out at James’ legs, but James was too quick for him. He sidestepped neatly and this time a fist buried itself in Dave’s stomach. Dave doubled over with a retching gasp. James took a step forward and hauled him up, his mouth twisted with rage... another fist to Dave’s middle—another ragged retch.

“Jesus, James, have you gone fucking mental?” Lars protested, stepping forward.

“Lars, let it be.” Cliff moved forward and stopped his progress.

Dave fell into James and hung on to his adversary’s body, shoulders heaving as he tried to regain his breath. James struggled to push him off in preparation for another blow. Dave tensed.

“Fuck.” A surprised exhalation of breath as James winced at the punch to his side. He shoved Dave from him with another curse. Dave’s lips pulled back over bloodied teeth as he straightened.

“C’mon, faggot,” he invited.

Cold fire sparked to life in James' eyes as Dave dove into him, fists flying.

“Cliff, fuck!” Lars tried in vain to wrench away from Cliff’s restraining hand. “They’re gonna fuckin’ destroy each other!” He winced as James' head jerked to the side, not in time to avoid Dave’s clenched fist.

“James can take care of himself. And what the fuck do you care about Mustaine?” Cliff’s voice was calm as he tightened his grip on Lars’ arm. “This has been coming for a while,” he added with a small frown. He pulled Lars back a few steps.

“Think you’re so much fuckin’ better than everyone else.” Dave grunted, James’ fist connecting with his stomach.

James said nothing, concentrating on landing his next blow while dodging Dave’s flailing fists.

“Don’t fuckin’ need you or your fuckin’ pretty boy!” Dave tucked his head down and barrelled in again. James’ breath came out in a pained whoosh as they staggered back against a stack of empty equipment boxes. With a crash, they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Fuck!” Lars pulled away from Cliff. “We’ve got a fuckin’ show to put on for fuck’s sake!” He moved to pull the two combatants apart.

“Lars!” Cliff made a grab for him. “Stop thinking of the fucking band for once you fuckwit. Let them fight it out.”

“They’ll fuckin’ kill each other.” Lars grabbed for one of Dave’s arms and missed as Cliff hauled him back.

“Mustaine fucking deserves it!” Cliff’s voice rose. “Shoulda finished the fuckin’ job myself when I had the fuckin’ chance.” He held Lars firmly by the upper arms and shook him. “After what he did to you, let James fuckin’ hammer him. He deserves it.”

“It doesn’t matter—I don’t matter!” Lars struggled.

 _“Jesus Christ, Lars—he raped you!”_

Laboured breathing drowned out the chugging drone of the refrigerator. Lars’ eyes were wide with horror as he stared up into Cliff’s face. He wrenched away from suddenly slack hands, his features pinched and white. A tremor rippled through him as he spun about.

James sat atop Dave, one hand gripping Dave’s arm, the other drawn back, ready to deliver another blow. Dave’s fingers were twisted in James’ t-shirt, his other hand reaching for his throat. Both were frozen in place, both staring at Lars.

“Lars?” James blinked, his voice soft. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s had his dick in him.” Dave snarled, suddenly twisting beneath James. “Wasn’t so great.” His fingers left a long, angry scratch along James’ neck.

“Bastard.” James’ fist blurred on its way to connecting with Dave’s chin; Dave’s head snapped back against the floor. “Fuckin’ kill you.”

“No-o-o….” Lars watched, frozen in place, as James’ face became a mask of ice-cold rage.

Watched as James’ fist hammered into Dave, over and over.

Watched as Dave stopped fighting back.

Watched as Dave’s eyes rolled back in his head, his face battered and bloody.

Watched as Cliff finally dragged James from Dave’s limp body.

Watched as James turned bleak, uncomprehending eyes towards him.

“Why?” James’ voice was barely a whisper as he leaned heavily against Cliff, the rage gone. “Why didn’t you tell me? Squirt… why?”

“It wasn’t—“ Lars gulped back a sob. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” His eyes darted about the room, looking anywhere but at James. Anywhere but at that hurt and puzzled expression.

“Fuck, I thought…” James shook his head. “I thought we…” His eyebrows drew together in a small frown. “Fuck, man, we ain’t s’posed to have secrets.”

“James, it just wasn’t the right time.” Cliff soothed, his hand on James’ shoulder.

“You knew.” It was almost an accusation and Lars winced. He brought his hand up to his mouth and began to gnaw on a fingernail. There was an uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach and he felt as if he was about to spew the beer he’d so recently swallowed.

“He… he… he stopped it!” The words tore from him and he looked into James’ eyes at last. Hurt, dismay, confusion—the curtain came down and they were just icy blue eyes looking at him. Accusing him.

“You shoulda fuckin’ told me.” The voice was flat and void of emotion. “You just shoulda.”

James pushed away from Cliff and with a final, dismissive kick to Dave's prone body, stalked from the room, his back rigid.

“Fuck! Fuck! _FUCK!”_ Lars sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. “What the fuck do I do now?”

  
@@@@@@@@

  
Lars sat on the steps of the dilapidated building, the late morning sunshine trickling over him as it struggled out from behind the equally as disreputable building across the street. It was chilly again—would spring never arrive? He tilted his face into the weak sunshine and closed his eyes. The cold had never seemed to bother him before. He shivered and hunched into his leather jacket.

The past week had certainly sucked the high hard one. He thanked God that they hadn’t had a show to put on, because, quite frankly, it would have been beyond them.

How much beer and vodka had they put away between the three of them; he, Cliff and James? He didn’t want to think about it, but he knew none of them had bothered with a decent meal. Money only stretched so far, and face it—they wanted to drink. It made things bearable.

Fuckin’ Mustaine. They hadn’t seen much of his battered face around the rehearsal hall, and while that was probably for the best, his presence was certainly felt, even in his absence, especially by Lars, himself. It was felt in the compassionate looks that Cliff would send his way, in the way James pointedly ignored anything but the most general of conversation with him, in the way he huddled on his corner of the mattress in the hours before dawn, cold and shivering—and alone.

They’d woken Dave up that morning—early. The three of them. Given him a bus ticket and told them he was on his way out in less than an hour. Lars would never forget the look in his eyes; a mixture of confusion, hurt, anger, resignation and yes, fear as he gathered his meagre belongings. He’d tried for some of that Mustaine bravado but it had only came across as obnoxious petulance. Lars felt the stirrings of pity for him as he sat, watching, curled up in the corner of the battered sofa, nibbling anxiously at an already ripped and torn fingernail.

It had not been a comfortable hour for any of them.

Lars raised his head as a tall figure turned the corner and headed towards the building. Long strides ate up the sidewalk easily and within a few breaths, he found himself offering a tentative smile at the returning James.

“Well, that’s done.” James collapsed with a whoosh of breath next to Lars on the steps.

“You made good time.” Lars strove to find a nonchalant, easy tone. His fingers flexed anxiously as his hands hung between his knees.

“Thought he was gonna cry at one point.” James stared out across the street. “And I just didn’t care, you know? Didn’t give a flying fuck. Just wanted him on the fucking bus and gone.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on the stair. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he sighed.

“Did you grab breakfast? Coffee at least?” Lars drew his fingers through his hair, pulling at the snarls and tangles, before giving up and resting his cheek on his fist.

“Nah. No time. Didn’t want him to miss his fucking bus.”

“Well…” Lars dug into the pockets of his jeans. “I think I may have enough spare change for a couple of coffees—the bus ticket just ‘bout wiped us out. McDonald’s is just around the corner?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully as James glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He held out the meagre handful of quarters, dimes and nickels and James began to poke through it.

“Got enough there for a McMuffin, ya think?” he asked, flashing a small, almost shy smile.

“I’ll make it stretch.” Lars pushed himself to his feet and shoved the change back in his pocket. “C’mon.” He gave James’ knee a swift pat.

“Yeah.” James heaved himself up with a grunt and they headed off down the street, huddled into their jackets, collars turned up against the cold wind.

  
@@@@@@@

  
“He tried to talk to me about it.”

“About…?” Lars suddenly developed great interest in the small brown plastic crate stuffed full of sugar packets.

“’Bout what he did… to you….” James’ voice was low.

The McDonald’s was nearly deserted at this mid-morning hour. There was the obligatory table of senior citizens in for their morning coffee klatch, a young mother with her two toddlers and a man in a suit, his face buried in the morning newspaper. All were seated near the front of the restaurant, James and Lars having, by long habit, taken seats along the back wall.

“I didn’t want to hear it.” James’ long fingers folded and re-folded the edge of the empty McMuffin wrapper, drawing Lars’ eyes to them. “But it was like he was fuckin’ possessed.”

“He’s… fucked up.” Lars wasn’t certain he wanted to be discussing this here and now, but James was finally talking to him about something more substantial than the weather or an E minor down-strum.

“Yeah.” Lars felt James' eyes flicker to his face and continued to study the movements of those long fingers. Expressive hands. James was nervous… “Started off trying to excuse it by saying you’d… ah… been… um… coming on to him.”

“I fucking never—“ Lars tensed, his own fingers curling about the sugar crate.

“I know that.” There was a soft sigh and James’ fingers stilled for a moment. “I know that, Squirt.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I did, but I musta done something.” Lars’ knees began to bounce beneath the table—first one, then the other. “Thought he was just looking for a fucking place to crash after the party. I didn’t say anything, James, not a fucking word. I didn’t push… didn’t dig… didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut… my smart mouth shut.” He twirled the slim, plastic coffee stirrer in his fingers. “I thought he was just looking for a place to sleep.” The tiny spoon began to bang against the tabletop. “Just wanted to crash. Thought that’s all he wanted. I didn’t argue… didn’t say shit, James… I didn’t say shit.”

“Lars.” James leaned forward in his chair.

“And then, James, all of a fucking sudden, he’s kissing me! Fuck! I didn’t know what the fucking hell was going on. What he was doing! And he started to talk all this crap… all this shit about you. And he was all over me and I couldn’t… I couldn’t fuckin’ get him off me. He hit me, he fuckin’ plowed me one and fuck… and… and… then… and then…” Lars’ eyes were round with horror. “Oh, fuck, James… he… he… oh Jesus…”

“And then Cliff came, right?” James' voice was gentle. His hand reached out. “Cliff took care of things.” His fingers touched Lars’ hand, stilling the tapping.

“Yeah… yeah…” Lars pulled his hand away and rubbed it over his mouth. “Cliff was there. Cliff came.” He fell silent and stared out the window beside the table, his eyes squinting slightly.

“Lars? Why didn’t you tell me?” James pulled his hand back and folded it into the other on the table in front of him. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand? That I’d fuckin’ condemn you? Blame you?”

Despite the quiet, low tone, Lars could hear the hurt underlying James’ words. He turned back from the window and fixed James with a steady gaze.

"No, I never thought that," he said, then took a deep breath. "At first… at first, all I could think of was that we had to get to New York. We had to start taking over the world, just like we talked about. But we couldn't do that if we didn't have a lead guitarist and I knew… I fuckin' knew that you'd at the very least, throw him out of the band. At worst…." His voice lowered, as did his eyes. "At worst, I thought you might kill him." He twirled the little plastic spoon. "Either way, Metallica was fucked."

"Fuck man! This is about you! Not the fuckin' band!" James splayed his hands flat on the table and Lars saw that they were trembling. He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.

"I wasn't important. The band. Our dreams… they were what was important. Our _dreams."_ The little spoon snapped between his fingers. "And then… I just wanted to forget. Forget that it ever fucking happened," he whispered.

"You shoulda told me, Squirt."

James' hand reached across the table and wrapped around his. Lars drew in a deep, shaky breath.

"I think maybe you're right." He blinked, determined to keep tears from falling. James' fingers tightened.

"Squirt?" His grin was gentle as his eyes sought out Lars'. "Don't you know I'm always right?"

"Right." Lars snorted softly as he felt something hard and tight deep inside him give way. He met James' gaze and smiled shyly. Their fingers untangled.

"And, Squirt? No more secrets, okay?" He arched an eyebrow. "Closed fist, right?" He curled his fingers into a loose fist. Lars' smile grew a little as he followed suit.

"Closed fist."

Their two fists knocked together.

"C'mon, let's get our asses back to the hall. Don't know about you, but I'm fucking exhausted." James pushed back his chair.

"Me too. Haven't been sleeping real well lately." Lars followed his lead, pulling on his leather jacket as they threaded their way through the tables. "And Hammett arrives tonight, we wanna be ready for that." He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

"And we resume our quest for world domination." James clapped him on the shoulder. "We're back on track, Squirt." His fingers squeezed tight.

"Yeah, I think we are." Lars turned his face up into the sunlight.

The chill was gone. Spring had finally arrived. He pumped his fist into the air. There was a world to conquer.

 _~finis~_   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ng, what can I say. One little IM session and you kicked this story back into gear for me. *grin* You KNOW I couldn't do this without you. Best damned editor and bunny sparker out there, you are. *huggles* And Joolz, for all the support and inspiration and just for being there—*tons o' hugs*. And I have to thank my Lars muse and my Dave muse for letting me fuck so horribly with them. This story's been nagging at me for almost a year now and it feels damned good to have it written! And a huge thanks to all of you who have stuck with me while I coaxed it out of the recesses of my mind.


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